Going Out
by averagehikari
Summary: Some thugs get the drop on Sherlock and John realizes that He is not really as invincible as he likes to seem. rated T, but pretty safe. Chapt. three is now up.
1. Chapter 1

**Urgh, first ever fanfic ever. Sorry that it is quite unoriginal. Just a random little Idea that sort of blobbed itself onto the page. Please read and review, that would be super cool.**

"Going out, back in an hour." In one swift motion Sherlock fastened his blue scarf around his neck, and quickly buttoned up his coat, then, in a whirl of coattails, disappeared down the stairs.

"Wait! Sherlock, we need-" John tried to call out, but he heard the door slam before he could even finish the sentence. "Milk." He sighed dully, sitting back down in his chair. Sherlock did say in an hour, maybe they could go out and get some then he mused. He supposed he could do it himself, and then it was likely they'd be back at the flat around the same time. John sighed while zipping up his coat. It would be nice to have maybe one Sunday when Sherlock might do the shopping, but that was one of the many footnotes of the unspoken agreement allowing him to live with Sherlock without punching him in the face half the time.

The sound of his own heartbeat and his shoes slapping on moist pavement was heaving in Sherlock's ears as he raced down the street in a hot pursuit.

John doubled back down an aisle to grab a box of tissues, remembering suddenly that Sherlock had used the last one for an experiment (one that had also lit the kitchen table on fire).

Sherlock dashed through a crowd of people, refusing to lose sight of his suspect, a notorious thug, likely involved in a drug ring, and now a murder. He pushed his way past a gaggle of tourists just in time to see the man duck into an alley.

John shifted his weight from one leg to another, wishing the line wasn't so infernally long, wondering absentmindedly if Sherlock would make it home before him. He would probably show up covered in somebody's blood again, or disguised as a dentist or something. John couldn't help but chuckle despite himself.

Sherlock raced to the end of the alley, and misguided for a fraction of as second, which way the murderer had turned. But that was all the time required for an ambush. The man leapt from behind the rubbish tip brandishing a knife. Sherlock countered quickly, dodging the clumsy swing. The man was strong obviously, but poorly trained, drugs were his game, and while there was certainly danger involved in such an occupation, it was mostly intimidation and little in the way of skill and finesse. Sherlock adeptly swung between the man's slow attempts to stab him, and threw a quickly blow to the man's gut, the man staggered, and Sherlock was ready, striking a quick blow across his face. Sherlock reached for his phone to text Lestrade, but before be had the chance to press "send" he heard the tap of shoes on pavement behind him. He whirled round in time to see the attacker coming at him, but not in enough time to block the blow, which struck the side of his face rather than where it had been intended, the back of his head.

"gaah-" was the unexpected noise that escaped from him lips, and as he staggered the man hit him in the shoulder, (with what he had now deduced to be a pipe) knocking him to the pavement. Sherlock rolled over to look up at the attacker just in time to see the man bringing his leg down, and planting his foot heavily into Sherlock's chest, with a resounding crack as his ribs gave way. Braced for the pain this time, no sound escaped Sherlock except a sharp intake of breath. The man with the knife had recovered himself by now, and took a step towards Sherlock. As he did though, police siren blared in the distance, and he seemed to change his mind, landing a final kick at Sherlock and then dashing out of the alley along with the other man.

John shut the fridge door and drummed his fingers on the counter. He had been held up an extra half out, and fully expected to find Sherlock lighting the flat on fire again when he arrived home. Instead, he had been greeted by an empty room and had internally reminded himself that when crime was involved "an hour" might mean five. But still, even Sherlock usually had the decency to just say "don't wait up," He rarely stated a time unless he meant to keep it. Lateness was fortunately not one of Sherlock's many uncomfortable habits. John sighed, and filled the kettle, resolving to wait up for Sherlock, certain he would have an interesting explanation of the case that was keeping him late.

Sherlock took a hitched breath, wincing and deducing that two of his ribs had cracked, and that the blow to his head had left a gash where it struck, one that would likely need stitches, warm blood trickled down the side of his head, and he felt dizzy as he struggled to stand. He debated texting Lestrade, but deemed it unnecessary, as the criminals had evaded him. He thought about texting John, but he realized that might make the doctor quite annoyed, as Sherlock had wormed his way out of getting the milk earlier that day. So, with the streets growing dim as evening set in, and his head throbbing, the world's only consulting detective set out at a staggered pace towards baker street.

John turned on the telly and set the remote back on the couch. Sherlock had been gone for four hours now. He checked his phone again to look for texts from Sherlock, but instead found one from Lestrade, inquiring as to Sherlock's whereabouts. This was somewhat worrying. He texted back that Sherlock had not been home, and then grabbed his coat of a chair and headed for the stairs. As he paused while pulling it on, he heard the door swing open, and a loud resounding thud from downstairs. Wondering momentarily if he ought to fetch his gun before proceeding, john stepped out onto the stairs only to be greeted by a most unfamiliar and equally unwelcome sight. It was Sherlock, face down on the hall mat, the door still open behind him, his dark curls wet with blood and sweat, which he was smearing on the floor. It would have been quite funny if it hadn't looked so grave.


	2. Chapter 2

Here we are, with apologies for wait time and length. And quality :S please enjoy. Reviews would be awesome, if you have time and inclination.

Oh yeah, and obviously I don't own Sherlock. Lol.

Sherlock struggled to pull himself of the floor, ears ringing. He had got the door open and then his legs just sort of… gave out, and he'd fallen into the open doorway. He would have been quite content to stay there if it wasn't for his chest, which was protesting horribly from his weight being rested upon it. He wanted to call for John or Mrs. Hudson, but only a weak gasp escaped his lips for some reason. Unable to move or call for help Sherlock suddenly found himself feeling oddly, and quite terribly helpless. And then warm hands were on him, so without warning that he flinched, calming instantly when he realized it was John, checking his pulse, asking Sherlock if he could hear him. Sherlock struggled to respond.

John was aghast. He had almost expected something like this to happen, but actually seeing it was another thing.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?" he repeated his earlier question, hoping to receive an answer. Sherlock took a shallow, ragged breath before he responded.

"Jhn" John sagged with relief for a moment from discovering Sherlock was at the very least, conscious. John helped him carefully as Sherlock struggled to sit up, gasping in pain as he did so. John pulled off his sweater, balling it up and pressing it to the wound on Sherlock's head, before turning his attention to the detective himself.

"Anything hurt other than your head?" He asked, hoping Sherlock would have the decency to at least tell the truth.

"Ribs." He muttered weakly. John was surprised. He had really expected Sherlock to insist he was fine, so he guessed that the injury was quite painful. He unbuttoned Sherlock's shirt carefully to inspect his ribs. A dark bruise was already beginning to swell on his left side, and he pressed his fingers gently to the wound only to hear Sherlock whimper. Yes, actually _whimper_. John pulled his fingers away quickly; shocked that Sherlock was even capable of such a noise. A strange panic rose within him at seeing this weak, vulnerable side of Sherlock.

"They're probably cracked, Sherlock," John said, working to keep his voice even. "Maybe broken. We should take you to the hospital." John hoped maybe Sherlock would see that this was really the best course of action, but he hadn't taken into account that even this, weak, almost timid Sherlock was still Sherlock.

"No…" He wheezed, trying to shake his head, and pull away from John. Cleary the hospital was not an option, John admitted begrudgingly, sliding his hands carefully under Sherlock's arms to help him up.

"Ready?" John asked gently. Sherlock scoffed, or tried to.

"Of course I'm ready John, I don't-" His voice was cut off by a sharp gasp of pain, as John hauled him to his feet. Sherlock coloured, embarrassed, and John stifled a laugh, feeling a little mean for doing that, and a little pleased at the same time. Sherlock was such a proud idiot, and John doubted he would ever learn to accept help from anyone, and, a little more bitterly, wondered if there had been many people to offer it before him and Mrs. Hudson.

With Sherlock leaning more heavily on John for support as he would like to admit, He and John managed to stumble their way up the stairs, and deposit Sherlock on the couch. He shrugged of his coat uncomfortably, working hard not to wince at the pain in his ribs. John had hurried off to find his first aid kit, and Sherlock was still feeling… well, embarrassed. Upset that he had lost the criminals, cranky because he was in pain, and terribly humiliated that John was seeing him like this. Then John rushed over and sat don in front of Sherlock, first aid kit in hand, and reached out to lift Sherlock's hair, a warm cloth in hand to clean the cut. Sherlock flinched away, but John paid not attention, pulling aside his hair and dabbing at the wound. Sherlock looked at his feet.

"You must think me quite foolish." He said quietly. John shook his head, turning the cloth over to the clean side and resuming work.

"I think you're not invincible." Sherlock frowned. "And that acting like you are is a good way to get yourself killed." Sherlock turned his head to look at the wall. "Why didn't you text me Sherlock? I could have come and found you."

"Ithoughtmugangrywithme." Sherlock mumbled, looking at the floor again.

"What?"

"I thought you'd be angry with me." Sherlock admitted quietly. John frowned, confused.

"Angry about what?"

"Never mind." It was obvious John wasn't upset about the milk. Sherlock resisted the urge to smile.

Wow, does that even count as and ending? You tell me. Maybe a chapter three, if I find any time and ideas. Thanks for reading!

-AverageHikari


	3. Chapter 3

**Hey people, sorry for the wait time, and intense shortness of this chapter. A fourth is probably in the cards, but no promises, inspiration is a fickle mistress. Please enjoy, and reviews are always delicious. As a note actually, I want to thank everyone who reviewed chapter's one and two, I would never have written this far without you, and I'm really glad you enjoyed this.**

"Stop touching it." John groaned, for what had to be the fiftieth time.

"Touching what John?" Sherlock glanced up from his phone, and John grabbed his hand to pull it away from the bandage on Sherlock's forehead.

"The bandage, Sherlock. Stop poking at it." Sherlock fixed him with a stare, a really good one, his eyes were as cold as a glacier, and his eyebrows were furrowed in false confusion.

"I don't know what you're talking about John, I'm doing nothing of the sort." John rolled his eyes, smacking Sherlock's hand as it reached toward his forehead again, seemingly unbeknownst to the consulting detective.

"Yes, you are, and stop it, you'll only make it bleed worse." Sherlock made no retort, but responded with a derisive kind of "humpgh" noise, to which John shook his head wearily, getting up from the couch.

"I'm going to make tea, do you want any?" Sherlock gave no response, which could be generally construed to be a no. "Does your chest hurt?" He added, while filling the kettle. "Do you want more pain meds?" John called from the kitchen. Again, Sherlock offered no response, and John walked back over toward the couch, ready to snatch Sherlock's phone from his hands in the hopes of getting answers to his questions, but stopped short, he eyes met by and absolutely shocking sight. Sherlock was fast asleep on the couch, looking terrifyingly innocent. John stared for a short moment, then pulled Sherlock's phone gently from his hand, and placed it on the table, retrieving a blanket from under a stack of papers, shaking it out, and then covering Sherlock with it, not having the heart to wake him after tonight.

John was never quite sure why he hung around Sherlock, despite all the madness, Donovan's warnings, the fact that everyone seemed to think they were a couple, sometimes he thought Sherlock was right, that he liked the danger, the rush, being back in the war again. But John wondered if he like being close to Sherlock for this. Because you would have to get close to him, closer than anyone else ever was to see this. To see moments, however brief, when the mask slipped, and underneath he was human.

John reached out towards Sherlock, brushing his hand over his hair, somehow… reaffirming that this was real. He felts warmth at his fingertips, and was surprised momentarily, before wondering why. Of course Sherlock was warm, everyone was. It was just, somehow more human than he expected- no than Sherlock wanted people to expect. He acted like a cold deduction machine, to the point where his human softness and warmth were a surprise, even if they were basic facts of life. But Sherlock was warm. He had lit up the darkness that John had found himself lost in, filled an empty life with new friends and people. John cracked a smile, and lifted his hand from Sherlock's head, ignoring the odd lingering hunger for the warmth now leaving it, and went to bed, wrapped in thoughts.


End file.
